The Savateuse
by White Eyebrow
Summary: This is for the King fans: the first "officially recognized" King fic!
1. Dethroned

_A/N:_

_Before you get invested in this story, I feel obligated to give you, gentle reader, fair warning of..._

_What this story is NOT:_

_1) A point-to-point retelling of SNK cannon-lore._

_2) A novelization of any particular video game._

_What this story IS:_

_1) An idea-to-idea retelling of SNK cannon-lore._

_2) A collapsing of many SNK franchises into a single continuity with a KOF look and feel._

_3) Deeper than what appears on the surface._

_Edit (7/15/2014):_

_Thanks to our efforts, the admins have added King as a selectable character in the search criteria. I added King as soon as I got their email, making this the first recognized King fanfiction on this site! You guys Rock!_

_—WE._

* * *

**The Savateuse**

Act 1: Act in accordance with time and change.

* * *

Dethroned

"Haoh Shou'kouken!"

The woman named King cradled her belly as she lay on the ground. Her diaphragm spasmed in her struggle to regain the wind that was knocked out of her.

_What the hell was that?_

She forced her eyes open, and her tear-blurred vision came into focus on her opponent that towered over her. All she could make of him was his odd raiment: an orange karate gi.

_I've got to get up! _Her trembling legs failed her. It was as if her entire nervous system had been short-circuited. The best she could manage was to roll upright onto her knees. She shook the dizziness out of her head. Sounds from the outside world finally started to trickle in.

"... Seven... Eight... Nine... "

She clenched her jaw; a tear rolled down her cheek._ I'm sorry, Jean. I failed._

"Winner: Ryo Sakazaki!"

The crowd was in an uproar. King rose to her feet. Though she felt her strength returning, her body still reeled from her attacker's onslaught. The man in the orange gi approached, and she instinctively steeled herself for another attack.

Her vision blurred again, so when she felt something heavy drape over her slight shoulders, she swatted blindly. "ALLEZ VOUS-EN!"

The man in orange hopped back out of range. He raised his arms in a placatory gesture, saying, "I'm sorry. I didn't know that you were a—"

She stilled upon meeting his gentle gaze, remembering her english. "A _what?"_

"That you're a girl."

_I-I can't believe I lost to this..._ "Imbécile!" She then gasped, _How does he know that I'm a woman?_

Her attention then turned to the crowd. The din of their fury was laced with jeers and catcalls. Her eyes followed their many fingers that pointed down to her chest, and her face turned beet red. Her blouse had been torn apart, exposing her deceptively ample breasts stuffed into a bra one cup size too small.

Humiliated, she regarded the thick orange gi top that her opponent had thrown over her unawaress. She drew the fabric in to cover her exposed chest and fled from the makeshift arena. Her heart raced; _it's __Thailand all over again._

She didn't bother to retrieve her gear, though there wasn't anything worth keeping, and left through the back exit. She found herself in the alley behind the seedy tavern. The door's close dulled the noises inspired by her defeat. She stepped lightly on the damp concrete to minimize the loud clomp of her shoes. The cool night air nipped at the nape of her neck, and she pulled the orange piece of uniform tighter around her body; it was marked heavily with its owner's scent.

King paused when she sensed that she was not alone.

A figure stepped out from the corner of the building where the alley met the side walk. Keeping his movements slow and deliberate, he reached into the pocket inside his leather trench coat and retrieved a lighter. He thumbed the flint and lit the fag in his mouth. "So, you were Mr. Big's secret weapon. It looks like all of your _secrets_ have been exposed, yeah?"

"Billy Kane," King greeted in recognition of his British accent. "I thought Geese kept a tighter leash on his lapdogs."

He grinned. "Well, you know how it is with the King of Fighters tourney and all."

"What do you want, Billy?"

"The Boss has always had a keen eye for investment opportunities. He knows that you're the reason that club L'Amor became Big's most profitable front. In fact, it could've gone legit if Big hadn't gotten greedy. If you come over to Howard Connection, you'll work directly under Geese—all above board."

"Thanks, but after I quit working for Big, I adopted a strict no-more-assholes policy."

The native Briton was not impressed. "Too bad you lost to that karate bloke, then. I imagine the prize money would've come in real handy, considering how expensive your brother's treatments are." He took a long protracted drag from his cigarette, saying as he exhaled, "`Ow is Jan doing these days, besides?"

"His name is _Jean."_ King let her arms fall loosely at her sides with her fists clenched, unconcerned about her state of dress. "And don't you talk about him!"

Billy sneered. "Relax. All's I'm saying is, career opportunities like this don't sprout up every day, love." He reached into his coat.

King started to brush past him when her advanced was halted by a thin flash of red; Billy's cudgel had stopped short of smashing her nose. She remained calm and accepted the calling card that was balanced expertly on the end of his crimson colored fighting staff.

"Think about it, yeah?" With a practised flick of his wrist, Billy's cudgel collapsed neatly back into the lining of his coat. He left without further pretense.

It was a long bus ride back to King's apartment in East Southtown. She entered the modest dwelling to find her elderly babysitter reading quietly on the sofa. It was a convenient arrangement: Old Mrs. Cranston lived just down the hall and worked for cheap. She wasn't qualified to handle Jean's special needs, but the medication kept most of his symptoms at bay, and a phone call could be made if his condition flared up. King paid Mrs. Cranston with the last of her cash, noting the old lady's grimace before she left.

King went to the bathroom, tossing her borrowed orange blouse along the way, and examined her face in the mirror. A purple patch of skin started to swell above her left eye. She cleaned herself up and placed one of Jean's fever pads over the bruise.

Having tended to her injuries, she decided to check in on her baby brother. She opened the door to his room, but his bed was empty.

"Jean?"

There was no answer. She checked the other rooms, ending her search in the living room. When she turned on the light, she spied a glint of light reflected from a piece of metal that jutted out from behind the sofa at the far corner of the room.

Stifling a snicker, she noisily sat herself at the other end of the sectional.

King put her face in her hands and pretended to sob. "Oh là là! What am I going to do now that Jean has left me? I want to cry."

"Don't cry, sis." Jean giggled as he came out from behind the sofa "I am here!"

"Jean!" King exclaimed in faux surprise. "Where did you come from?"

"I was hiding, silly." Balancing his arms against the back of the sofa, Jean managed to his feet without the use of his cane.

"You are getting better. I couldn't sense you at all."

"I have learned stealth and patience like a ninja." Jean said with pride. "One day I will become a great fighter like you, big sister."

"That you shall, mon grand. But first you must go to school and become smart like maman and papa."

King offered Jean her arm as they made their way to his bedroom. His leg braces squeaked as he walked; King made a mental note to clean them in the morning. She eased him into bed and helped him remove his braces.

"Sis, I miss maman and papa... It's becoming harder and harder to remember."

"For me too."

"Will you tell me another story about them from when you were my age?"

"Some other time, mon gran. I am tired."

"You look like maman..." Jean smiled as he closed his eyes, recalling a faded memory. "She was pretty, non?"

"Oui." She blushed and kissed his forehead. "Good night."

After tucking Jean in, King went to the wine cupboard and poured herself a generous glass of her favorite Merlot. She sat on the sofa and put her feet up; the worries of tomorrow would have to wait. The sounds of the nine-thirty train clacking along the tracks just outside her window lulled her to sleep.

—oOo—

A loud ringing jolted King out of her peaceful slumber. She reached out blindly for the alarm and knocked over the empty wineglass. Another volley of rings assaulted her ears, and she realized it wasn't the alarm, but the telephone. She sat up and banged her heel on the edge of the coffee table, another reminder that she was in the living room, not the bedroom.

"PUTAIN DE MERDE!" She grabbed the phone. "What do you want?"

There was a brief silence on the other end. "Uh... Ms. King?"

"Yeah?"

"This is Southtown Hospital calling to schedule Jan's surgery."

She blinked. "It's Jean. And I don't understand: I lost the tournament; I don't have the money to pay the doctor."

"The procedure has already been paid in full, ma'am."

"By whom?" King snapped.

"I don't know, ma'am." The receptionist's voice sounded like she was getting annoyed. "So, would you like to schedule a time for the procedure now?"

"I'll call you back."

King hung up the phone and sauntered to the kitchen to investigate the smells of coffee and poached eggs. She was not surprised to find Jean busy at work. King's late night schedule meant that she often did not get up early enough to make breakfast. Therefore, Jean had grown to be self sufficient and got around quite well in spite of his leg braces.

He smiled, being used to King's morning grumpiness. "You slept on the couch again. Your breakfast is getting cold."

"Thank you, mon grand." She came over and kissed the top of his head before pouring herself a cup of coffee. "Have any strangers been by our apartment recently?"

"No, sis."

"Have there been any calls?"

"No, sis."

She fumbled through her wallet and found the crumpled calling card. "Will you be all right by yourself for a few hours?"

"What's wrong?" Jean questioned, sensing the trepidation in his sister's voice.

"Nothing."

"I thought you were off today?"

"Jean, please," King's reply brooked no further discussion. She was definitely not a morning person. "I promise I won't be long."

Jean frowned. "Of course I'll manage. I'm not a baby."


	2. Obligation

Act 1: Act in accordance with time and change.

* * *

Obligation

Billy Kane stood erect in the center of the large training hall. His eyes focused on a single slip of paper suspended from the ceiling by a nigh invisible thread. His toes raked lightly against the cudgel at his feet. The air was still, so the paper did not move. The anger inside him swelled the longer he studied the news clipping that showcased a picture of a blond man wearing a red baseball cap.

With uncanny dexterity, Billy rolled his toes under the cudgel and flicked the staff up to his waiting hand. With a perfect stance and a sure grip, he thrust the end of his cudgel toward the page. However, the target remained intact, being blown aside at the last second by a sudden rush of incoming air. The subject in the picture seemed to taunt him.

_Bollocks!_

Billy turned to the henchman, who had opened the door, with a reprimanding glare.

The henchman, in spite of his massive size, cowered under Billy's glower. "Sorry, sir. There's a boy here to see you."

"A boy, you say?" Billy snorted in realization. "See _him_ in."

The henchman obeyed, and King entered the hall soon after. Billy chuckled to himself at his lackey's understandable mistaking of King for a boy, for she wore her usual style of dress that consisted of a dark blazer with matching trousers. Her crew haircut and lack of makeup added to the deception that she often used to protect herself on the street.

King regarded the expansive dojo and the many artifacts that decorated the walls—in keeping with the owners' predilection for Asian culture. She did not bother to remove her Gale wingtip shoes, a clear sign of disrespect, and she approached Billy with loud footfalls. "I thought I made it clear that I don't want anything to do with your gang?"

Billy rested his cudgel across his shoulders, giving her a clear view of his bare torso as she squared off. "If that's so, then what are you doing here, love?"

"To tell you that I have no intention of becoming beholden to another master. So, when Geese returns, you can tell him to keep his money." Her expression soured at the sight of Geese's portrait that was displayed prominently at the head of the room. "He would do better to hire an interior decorator."

Billy's usual smug grin faded. "I'm rapidly loosing patience waiting for you to get to the point."

She took a step back in response to Billy's change in demeanor. "Was that not you that paid off Jean's hospital bill?"

"Wasn't us." His grin returned. "Sounds like you have a secret admirer."

King folded her arms and cleared her throat. "I'm sorry to have wasted your time." She turned to leave, but once again found her egress impeded by the end of Billy's cudgel.

"Not so fast, dearie. You came all this way, so maybe you wouldn't mind answering a question for your old friend Billy?"

A raised eyebrow marked her assent.

With a sneer, Billy lowered the end of his cudgel from her face, stopping at her chest. "If not for family, what would it take to separate you from those beautiful... _principles_ of yours?"

In answer, King leapt straight into the air, spinning as she struck the cudgel with her knee, disarming its master. At her height, she extended her leg, and her crescent kick cut the air over Billy's head.

He ducked, but reversed himself when he saw the bottom half of the paper floating to the ground. The top half of the page remained suspended on the thread undisturbed. He rose to stand nose-to-nose with King, who sported an arrogant smirk.

"You should practice more, Billy. There's nothing worse than a man who can't handle his pole."

Billy snorted. "Careful, love. You're cute, but not _that_ cute."

With that, King resumed her egress only to be stopped again by the henchman at the door. She looked over her shoulder to address Billy one last time. "Move your tree, before I chop him down."

With a smile of amusement, Billy gave the henchman a sideways nod, and the big man allowed King to leave without further incident.

Alone again, Billy resumed his exercise. He retrieved his cudgel and, with renewed focus, bore his weapon down towards the expertly twained remains of the suspended page. His thrust was faster this time.

_Bollocks!_


	3. Defiance

Act 1: Act in accordance with time and change.

* * *

Defiance

"Koryu kata _Sanchin_... Hajime!"

At his teacher's command, Ryo Sakazaki began the demonstration by clearing his mind. His protracted exhale purged all the bad air from his lungs, along with all the distractions and doubts from his mind. The toes of his feet pointed inward, and his pelvis tilted forward, allowing his legs to sink into a triangular-shaped stance. All the power in his torso bore down to form an "iron shirt" of muscle threaded together by sinew and imbued with a veneer of qi.

Ryo's peer and training partner, Robert Garcia, circled him, testing his form as their master watched. Ryo took a circular step forward, inhaled, and Robert kicked him, full force, in the stomach. Ryo absorbed the kick, allowing its destructive energy to dissipate around him, as a river flowing around an immovable rock, and he exhaled the bad air with a loud _ibuki_ breath.

Ryo continued with the demonstration, turning to face the dojo's entrance. The door to the training hall opened. Usually, such an event would hardly register in Ryo's consciousness; however, the bob of blonde hair and the familiar face of the entrant caused him to lose focus briefly. _The girl from the tournament..._

"_Kiai!"_ Robert's spirit yell punctuated his kick to Ryo's thigh, and Ryo's leg buckled. Ryo recovered, exhaled and re-centered his qi. Robert smirked for the remainder of the demonstration.

After class was dismissed, Ryo made his way to the entrance of the dojo, massaging his thigh. King was long gone, buy his younger sister, Yuri, was still seated in the viewing area by the door. He eyed an unmarked paper bag sitting atop the sign-in counter.

"Hey, Yuri," Ryo greeted. "That lady that walked in during my shime demonstration... What did she want?"

"To return something of yours," she answered. As Ryo reached for the bag, Yuri got to it first and pulled out something orange. She smiled when she recognized it. "What was she doing with your lucky uniform, brother?"

"None of your business." Ryo reached for it, but Yuri was too fast for him.

"Smells like she washed it," she said, putting the uwagi to her nose. "She's a keeper, brother."

Ryo snatched his uwagi from her. "Hey! I wash my gi."

"Really?" She glanced at the calendar on the wall and teased, "Is it October already?"

"What's going on out here?" When their father, Takuma, spoke, the siblings quieted.

Yuri's grin broadened, and she elbowed her brother playfully in the ribs. "Ryo left his clothes at a pretty gaijin's house, father."

"Yuri! Nani o hanashiteimaska?" Ryo said, exasperated.

Unperturbed, Takuma merely grunted, "Ryo..." And, with a sidways nod, he beckoned his son over, and they retired to his office, closing the door behind them. Though they were alone, Takuma maintained an air of formality when he addressed his son—his top student. "Yuri told me that thirty prospective disciples signed up for lessons this morning. It is an odd thing given that we are lucky to receive thirty students in an entire year."

Ryo, quite used to his father's indirectness, lowered his head and admitted, "It is because I signed up for the King of Fighters tournament—against your advice."

Takuma's expression remained aloof. "You have your mother's defiance."

"Aren't you going to ask how I fared?"

"It doesn't matter. I turned the applicants away."

"Why, father? It's not like the school couldn't use the money."

For the first time, Takuma's features betrayed his emotions. "Is that why you did this? For the prize money?"

"No. We are taught to help the needy, so I gave the prize money to charity," Ryo was quick to explain. "I only entered the tournament to test my limits. There is no evil in Kyokugenryu benefiting from the prestige."

"The problem with this kind of 'prestige' is that it brings about the wrong kind of attention, Ryo!" The volume of Takuma's voice, though reserved by Western standards, had grown uncharacteristically loud for a man such as he, a man steeped in ancient, noble tradition. He regained his composure so his words would not be misconstrued. "You will go to the Hombu in Japan and train for one year—without the distractions of celebrity."

"You're sending me away?"

"This is not a punishment, my son." He placed an encouraging hand on his son's shoulder. Ryo's blond hair and defiant streak were his mother's gifts to him, which is why it pained Takuma every time he had to discipline him. "You must be prepared when they ask you back next year."

Ryo acknowledged his father's directive and left the office.


	4. Gratitude

Act 1: Act in accordance with time and change.

* * *

Gratitude

The gears of the adding machine clicked and whirred loudly as King's delicate fingers glided across the keypad. She tore off the paper output from the calculator, comparing the sum to her accounting chits, and she smiled; at this rate her night club, _La Illusion, _would turn a decent profit this month. She got up from her small desk, inside her small office, and yawned. To appease her aching muscles, hungry for movement, she propped a heel on top of the file cabinet and exhaled as she sunk into a standing full forward leg splits. A knock on her half-open door grabbed her attention.

Sally, one of the many waitresses King had stolen from her former employer, came into the office. "What is 'joo-yoon-die'?"

"You mean Juyondai," King said, correcting her. King switched legs and sunk into another splits. "Who's asking for that?"

"This... _intense_ guy at the bar," Sally answered thoughtfully. "I told him it wasn't on the wine list, but he insists."

King's eyes narrowed in her direction. "Was he rude?"

"No, it was like... he looked right through me, you know?"

Donning her signature tuxedo blazer, she strode past her, saying, "I'll take care of it."

King's first stop was the kitchen. She unlocked the special refrigerator and selected the flask marked with inscrutable writings in a foreign language. She didn't understand Japanese, but she recognized the label identifying the spirit known as Juyondai. She met Sally on the main floor, and she directed King to the man sitting at the far end of the bar. King gasped audibly and stilled when she recognized the man who had soundly defeated her at the tournament last week.

_What is _he_ doing here?_

She almost didn't recognize Ryo in regular street clothes. But, the way he sat on the barstool—with his deliberate posture and perfect body alignment—made him stand out from the other patrons. Or, maybe it were the muscles that rippled underneath his shirt as he removed his leather jacket.

Gripping the flask tightly in her hands, she approached Ryo from behind the bar. He regarded her calmly as she uncorked the bottle in front of him. "We don't get a lot of requests for saké, Mr. Sakazaki." She retrieved a wine glass and slowly poured the drink. "You'll have to forgive that we lack the accoutrements to serve it properly."

"Not a problem." He took a sip and gave an approving nod. "Have you ever tried saké, King-san?"

"Once... We have to special order this stuff because our chef likes to use it for cooking a particular dish. We certainly don't advertise it, so I'm curious as to how you found your way here?"

"The owner of the Pao Pao Café pointed me in your direction."

King eyed Ryo suspiciously. "I see. Please tell Richard Meyer that I'll never divulge who my sake supplier is"—she smiled—"no matter how many cute guys he sends over."

Ryo's brow furrowed, nonplussed. "Do you flirt with all your patrons, King-san?"

She shrugged and nodded in the direction of the empty jar on the counter. "I need the tips. Besides, you've already seen my boobs."

He laughed heartily. "My actions as a spy were unintentional. Actually, I came by to thank you for returning my uwagi."

King folded her arms. "You could've just asked for me, instead of freaking out my bar maid."

"Well, I wasn't sure if you would receive me, considering..."

"I understand." She leaned in, resting her elbows on the counter. "I wanted to deliver it personally, but you looked busy."

"You shouldn't have gone through the trouble of washing it."

Her smile turned into a smirk. "Washing it was more for my benefit, I think."

"Ouch." He blushed, his hand combing through the blond hair on the back of his head. "Now you sound like my sister Yuri."

"So, the Japanese lady I met was your sister?" She said, pursing her lips, and without thinking asked, "But, you're not Japanese, are you?"

Ryo returned to nursing his glass. "What's wrong? I don't look Japanese enough for you?"

"You have to admit that you guys don't normally come with naturally blond hair, and you have European features." She bit her lower lip, realizing her faux pas. "No offense."

His eyes were gentle towards her. "None taken. My mother was American; Yuri takes after the Sakazaki side—unlike me."

"Is that why your gi is bright orange?" Her smirk returned. "Are you a rebel?"

He snorted. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice that."

Her expression was deadpan. "It _was_ difficult to spot considering all the different colors traditional karate uniforms come in: for example, there's white, and... _white,_ and then there's the rare and exotic... _white..."_

"I don't think I want to tell you now." Ryo was visibly embarrassed. "I thought bartenders were supposed to be good listeners?"

"Usually I am... Except for customers who rip my blouse apart in a room full of half-drunken men of questionable repute." She stifled a giggle as Ryo almost spat out his drink.

"Now you're going to play the guilt card on me?"

"Oui." She continued to smile without shame. "That is what you get for luring me here under a false pretense."

"Very well." Ryo finished his drink and continued, "When I was a kid, the day before my green-belt test, I threw my orange belt into the washing machine along with my formal gi."

"And the orange dye from the belt bled into the uniform?"

He nodded in answer. "Father was angry; he always told us that a karateka should never wash his belt."

"So, why did you?"

"I wanted everything to be perfect for my test—that included my belt," Ryo offered. "So, as punishment, my dad made me take the test in the orange-stained gi."

"That was mean of him."

"It turned out for the best: I not only passed, but I was awarded 'Best of Test', so I took it as a sign. Ever since then, I've dyed my formal gi orange for good luck."

King blinked. "That... has got to be... the _s__illiest_ story I have ever heard." She bit the knuckle of her curled index finger in a futile attempt to stop her genuine laughter.

Still blushing, Ryo rested his forehead in his hand. "I'm pleased that my childhood trauma amuses you."

_T'es trop mignon._

_Kanojo wa totemo kawaii desu_

She bit her lip. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh." She leaned in again. "You know, Ryo, if you really want to make it up to me, you could teach me that finishing move of yours."

"Aha! You seek the secrets of Kyokugenryu Karate," he said, and for the first time, with an assertive voice. "Now who's been operating under false pretenses?"

She pouted. "I do your laundry, give you my good saké, and all I get in return are accusations?"

"I'm sorry." He reached into his pocked and pulled out his bill fold. "Here... How much do I owe you for the saké and the pleasant conversation?"

"It's on the house. In spite of your slander, I am in a good mood and feel like celebrating." With that, she refilled his glass.

He raised it in toast. "What are we celebrating?"

"Someone did something very nice for someone I care about."

Ryo's eyes widened. "D-do you know who it was?" He nervously took a sip.

"No," King answered, oblivious to Ryo's subtle change in demeanor. "Frankly, it has me a little baffled: people don't do nice things out of the goodness of their hearts without expecting something in return."

"Well, you've been 'nice' for letting me monopolize your time." He glanced at his watch. "Tell you what: If you still want a private lesson by the time I get back, the first one's free."

She arched a curious eyebrow. "Get back from where?"

"Japan." He sighed. "I'll be gone for a whole year."

"When?"

"I'm leaving in the morning."

King frowned. "That's a long time to keep a girl waiting."

He smiled weakly and rose from the stool. "Thanks again, King-chan." On his way out, he left a ten-spot in the tip jar.

"Don't be a stranger, Ryo."

King started to wipe the counter, using it as an excuse to stare at Ryo as he left the room. Distracted, she did not notice when Sally came upon her and almost yelped when her employee spoke.

"So, who was he?"

"He's nobody," King replied. "Just someone I ran into the other day."

Sally frowned, unsatisfied, and she pressed her. "You two seemed like you were getting along well."

King shrugged. "He's... not what I expected."

King proceeded to wash Ryo's glass. Using the busywork as a shield to deflect Sally's scrutiny. It seemed to be working, until Sally's sister and fellow co-worker, Elizabeth, happened by.

"What's going on here?" Elizabeth asked as she placed some used dishes in the sink.

"King is totally into this hot blond guy," her sister replied.

Elizabeth tilted her head quizzically. "I thought King was asexual?"

"_Asexual?"_ King heaved an exasperated snort. "Just because my life doesn't revolve around men?"

Sally shook her head. "That didn't stop her from giving him all the signals—"

"What is this nonsense?" King retorted. "I gave no signals."

"Then why were you giving him the wide-eyed pouty-lip treatment?" Sally replied, illustrating with an exaggerated pout of her lips and a fluttering of her lashes.

"And I could hear her laughing at his jokes from clear across the room," Elizabeth added.

"It's called 'comforting the customer': something you two should be doing right now instead of starting gossip." King regained her composure as she dried the wine glass, and she replaced it in the glass rack over the bar. "Besides, I don't date fighters."

"Even _muscley_ fighters with nice butts?" Sally said with a broad grin.

King rolled her eyes. _"Especially_ muscley fighters with nice butts—Er... Never mind."

Flustered, King turned on her heels and left the bar area, ignoring the twins' giggles.


	5. Believing

Act 2: The way of inhaling and exhaling is with hardness and softness.

* * *

Believing

The weather was perfect at Southtown Municipal Park. The clouds filtered the sun's heat, making for a pleasant, dewy morning. The air was brisk and enlivening as evidenced by the swaying trees.

King regarded Jean as he easily kept pace beside her. Upon reflection, she hadn't noticed how accustomed she had grown to hearing Jean's squeaking leg braces. Nevertheless, she considered their absence a godsend, seeing her brother walking sure-footed along the trail. His stares betrayed his curiosity at the mysterious oblong package that she carried with her, and she smiled.

Jean looked to her when they stopped in the open clearing. "Where are we going, sis?"

"We're already here," King replied. She presented the package and said, "Remember when I told you that we would do something special when your legs were strong enough?"

Jean smiled as he took possession of the proffered object. His eyes widened when he removed the wrapping. "A kite?"

King giggled along with her brother, and she helped him put it together.

"Thanks, sis." Jean's expression softened. "The last time we flew a kite was with maman and papa... Before..."

"I know." She stroked his hair.

"Can I fly it now?"

"But of course—after I get it started for you." She grapped the spool of string tied to the kite and held the sail up into the wind.

Jean rolled his eyes. "I know how to fly a kite."

"Yes, but we'll have to take it slow, Jean, since there isn't enough wind to catch an updraft—"

"Then I won't go slow." Jean snatched the spool and took off with the kite before King could stop him.

"Jean, wait!"

King started after him but was soon stilled by her surprise. In spite of the operation and physical therapy, she had thought nothing could top the joy of seeing her brother walk without crutches for the first time since the accident.

That is, until she beheld him running.

Her hands covered her gaping mouth in both shock and elation as Jean ran in to the wind. His kite caught the breeze and ascended into the sky. When the kite was steadily aloft, King joined him.

"You see, sis? It's like riding a bike."

"I'll never doubt you again, mon grand."

—oOo—

It remained windy well throughout the afternoon. King zipped her jacket as she walked the long city block. It took some time, but she was starting to get used to dressing up like a girl in public again. She didn't even mind the stolen glances of the men that passed her on the street. King's wind-swept hair had grown long enough to tickle the tops of her ears—it was a long forgotten sensation.

King turned into the alley leading to the side door entrance of La Illusion. Shielded from the wind, she could now hear her heavy tread caused by the thick soles of her leather boots. She fumbled for the keys in her pocket as she approached the door.

"You look good as a girl."

Startled, King's head snapped in the direction of the familiar voice. "Mickey?"

A tall Black man came out from behind the dumpster. Mickey Rogers brushed aside the braids that covered his face—he had aged considerably since King had last seen him. She steadied herself as he approached, the stagger in his gait telling of the contents in the unmarked glass bottle that he was carrying.

"It's a nice place you've made for yourself, King."

"Unfortunately, it still belongs to my investors."

"Meh, that's the way it is all over." The big man upturned the bottle to his waiting lips to take in the few remaining drops of rotgut. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Did you hear what happened to Geese?"

"I'm afraid I don't keep my ear to the street any more, Mickey."

"Someone chucked him out of his penthouse window." Mickey grinned. "Not that he didn't have it coming."

King snorted. "First Big, now Geese? Crime bosses are dropping like flies nowadays."

"You were wise to pull out when you did. A guy can't make a dishonest living no more."

"So, what are you doing here Mickey? Did I forget to RSVP to the hired thugs reunion, or something?"

Mickey chuckled. "Same old King. You've come a long way."

"I should; I worked my butt off."

"Naw, you still got plenty of butt left"—he sneered—"for a white girl."

She took her hands out of her pockets and folder her arms akimbo. "Your charm with the ladies certainly hasn't improved."

"Sorry, bad joke." His smile faded. "You and me... we used to watch each other's backs back in the old days... it's gonna make_ taking_ your invitation to the King of Fighters tournament harder than I thought."

Her eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about? If Geese is dead, then there is no more King of Fighters."

He shook his head. "Word on the street is the King of Fighters franchise is under new management."

"Then I'm sure I'll get passed up: everyone knows I'm a woman now. They don't let girls fight, remember?"

"You changed all that, baby. Women's Lib."

King was not impressed. "Sorry, but you came all this way for nothing."

"Don't lie to me!" He threw the bottle to the ground, and it skidded by her feet, but it did not break. "If anyone in Southtown got an invitation, it was you!"

King's jaw clenched as she unfolded her arms, letting them hang loosely at her sides. "What is this Mickey? I don't here from you in two years, and now you suddenly show up, out of the blue, half-drunk and making demands?"

"Look at me... this is my last shot at gettin' back into the ring. You don't need it like I do."

"Still, I don't think I'd give it to you—even if I did have it." King squared off.

Mickey raised his fists and assumed a boxing stance. "Why are you lying!"

The fighters circled each other in the narrow alley. When King saw Mickey twist his back foot, she knew he was ready to make his move. Mickey lunged, leading with two left jabs. Even with the tell, and her opponent half-drunk, King barely managed to parry Mickey's attack. Fortunately, Mickey's follow-up, a right cross, was much slower; she easily ducked the punch, hopped off the ground and planted her knee into Mickey's ribs.

_Tiger Kick!_

The former heavyweight champion slumped to his knees, cradling his belly and coughing up spittle.

When she sensed that Mickey had had enough, King stood down. "I saw that right cross coming a mile away. Your arthritis has gotten worse, hasn't it?"

Mickey looked up at her with bloodshot eyes. "I still got the fastest left jab in Southtown."

"It takes more than a quick jab to be the King of Fighters. You'll get torn apart."

He snorted. "Die fast, or die slow: what's the difference?"

She kicked the unbroken bottle back in his direction. "You wanna die, do it yourself. I'm not going to help you."

"What else am I gonna do if I can't fight?"

King shrugged. "Start over. That's what I did. Who says you can't do something else?"

"Don't you think I tried?"

"All I know is, people with less have done more. What would your father think if he was alive?"

Mickey rose, his hand covering his ribs. "That was a low-blow, King." He stayed back at a respectful distance when King resumed her Muay Thai stance.

King relaxed when she was sure that Mickey was no longer the aggressor. "Would he want you to go out like this?"

The boxer lowered his eyes. "No. It's just that... When I was in the ring... It was the only time I felt that people believed in me..." He turned to leave.

King waited until he was halfway to the side walk before closing her eyes and sighing heavily. She called out to him, saying, "Hey, Mickey. As it turns out, I need a handyman to fix up the place and lock up for me at night. Come by later, after you get yourself cleaned up, and we'll talk."

He faced her warily. "Why are you helping me?"

"It's not out of the goodness of my heart; it's a lot of work. Do you want the job, or not?"

Mickey finally nodded. "Thanks King." And he left.


	6. Invitation

Act 2: The way of inhaling and exhaling is with hardness and softness.

* * *

Invitation

King grabbed the last lobster from the crate. It was the liveliest one of the bunch with its twitching legs and flitting antennae. She placed it on the tray in front of the waiting steward and said, "Put this one in the tank; the rest go into the fridge." She proceeded to the sink and started to wash her hands when Sally approached.

"Hey, boss-lady, I got another order for table seven."

"This will be their fourth refill, yes?"

"Yep," Sally replied with a dull smirk. "Which means _you_ have to serve it to her."

King dried her hands, rolled down her sleeves and put her tuxedo blazer back on, saying under breath, "They might as well had bought the bottle..."

With the bottle in hand, King came upon the patron seated at table seven: a woman with fair hair and skin, similar in age and body to King. She sported a white vest worn over a single piece, black dress with loose cuffs. The dress had a high slit that opened from the front, revealing her stockinged legs, and a matching white accent sewn along the hem. Her hair was done up in a high bun with bangs that parted to the left which served to strategically cover that eye.

Though not King's style, she admired the look, even though it was not unique, for there was one other patron similarly dressed at an adjacent table in the next aisle. The styles of dresses were the same, however, the highlights of the latter matched its owner's short red hair.

The mysterious blonde sat upright with her legs crossed and pouted when she saw King standing over her. "Are you here to cut me off?"

King gave her a practiced smile of reassurance. "I'm just here to see if you're all right, madame."

She returned King's smile. "Sorry. It's hard to find Sangiovese outside of Italy. When I saw it on your wine list, I couldn't resist."

"No need to apologize; I'm glad that our selection pleases you. So, are you in town for business or pleasure?"

The lady's finger traced the rim of her empty glass as she gave thought to her answer. "Business... but open to pleasure." She placed the tip of her finger in her mouth, taking in its moisture.

"Then you've come to the right place. The best live music entertainers in the city will be playing here tonight."

Unmoved by King's comment, she placed her chin in her palm, exposing the timepiece that adorned her wrist. "No doubt, but I think I'm going to turn in early, just the same."

"I understand. Jet lag can be brutal."

At that she perked up. "How did you know that I was jet-lagged?"

"Your watch is still on Eastern European time, madame." King smirked.

The lady glanced at her watch and snorted in genuine amusement. _"Oau!_ You're very observant, Ms. King."

King arched an eyebrow, curious as to how the lady knew her name. "One has to be, considering everything that goes on in the world."

"Oh? So, you keep up with current events as well?"

"It's part of my job: it makes for good small talk." King removed the cork from the bottle and, using a clean napkin, thoroughly wiped its rim, illustrating her point with, "Given your accent, and the part of the world you're from, I would imagine that yesterday's Kremlin accords between the United States and the former Soviet Union are of immediate interest to you."

"Now you're just showing off." The lady casually bit her lower lip as she eyed King's every move, regarding the way the Frenchwoman cradled the bottle and glass expertly in her feminine hands while she poured the wine. Her gaze was more than friendly. "My employer would liken such an agreement to a 'dog and pony show' perpetrated by weak politicians to make the plebeians that keep them in office think that they're in control of things."

King snorted. "Now you have me curious..." and she twisted the bottle up when she finished pouring. She then wiped the rim with the napkin—though it was unnecessary, for the napkin remained unstained. "What is it that you do for this jaded employer of yours?"

The lady pouted in reply. "Today, it seems, that I am but a courier."

"Well, courier or not, you can certainly hold your wine, so I won't take up any more of your time, madame." King placed the filled glass in front of the grateful patron.

The lady placed her hand gently on top of King's as the glass was carefully set down. "It was time well spent." She brushed aside her bangs so as to clearly regard King with both eyes. "I'm staying at The Weston; how about I send my limo to pick you up after your shift? We could further discuss our tastes in fine wines and politics... over breakfast?"

King blinked, stilled by this woman's confidence. However, what gave her greater pause were the lady's intoxicating violet eyes. She cleared her throat. "Wouldn't your friend mind?"

"What friend?"

"I can spot an Anna Vinci couture anywhere—I own one myself. I find it unlikely that two women with the same designer would show up here at the same time out of the blue." King elaborated by glancing in the direction of the similarly clothed woman in the next aisle. "She's been watching us like a hawk ever since I came over."

"My employer likes for us to match, but I assure you that that is the extent of what I share with her." The lady rose and placed the tip her moistened index finger under King's chin, encouraging her gaze. "I would love to find out if your beautiful eyes are as soulful as they are perceptive."

Again, King caught herself staring. She could have sworn that the lady's eyes were violet, but now they were a bright blue and no less compelling. Nevertheless, she persisted, "Sorry, while your Sangiovese is earthy in its appeal, I'm the type that prefers a... _meaty_ Bandol Mourvedre."

King's intention made clear, the lady released her. "Pity." She retrieved some cash from her purse and handed King a crisp hundred dollar bill. "Keep the change."

"That is too much, madame—"

The lady's hush was soft yet stern enough to cut King off, and she whispered, "Believe me. You earned it."

King took the money graciously. "Merci." And she retired to the bar. She paid table seven's bill at the cash register and put the change in the tip jar. Soon after, a waitress placed her serving tray on the bar top, and King took her order, seeing as how the bartender on duty was busy.

King continued to help out; every once in a while she would glance over to the lady at table seven as she patiently savored the last of her wine. When she finished, she met up with the equally mysterious lady with red hair. On their way out they passed the bar; she and King shared one last knowing glance.

Blushing, King placed the cocktail on a waiting barmaid's serving tray. "Hey, Lizzie, can I ask you a question?"

"No, because I'm Sally, not Elizabeth."

She ignored Sally's rebuke. "Have you ever been hit on by any of our female patrons?"

"Nope." Sally grinned upon seeing the cash that King had put in the tip jar. "Looks like they tip well, though. Maybe I should start flashing the women a little cleavage."

Sally would interpret King's frown as a reprimand, when it was, in fact, more introspective.

Another waitress happened by, pausing long enough to hand King an envelope, saying, "This was left for you on table seven, King."

King regarded the fancy envelope, imbued with the mysterious lady's distinctive perfume, and she recalled the patron's comment about her job: _A courier..._ "Thanks, Sally."

The waitress frowned. "I'm Elizabeth." And she left in a rush.

King sighed. "We need to get you two different colored uniforms."

Sally smirked, and being more interested in King's continued fascination with the envelope than she was with delivering her drink order, coyly took her time balancing the cocktail on her tray. "What is it with you and blondes, anyway?"

King narrowed her eyes at Sally. "Shut up." And she left.

King twirled the envelope in her nervous fingers, making note of the paper's fine texture and the handwritten calligraphy that bore her name as the addressee. When she got to her office, she broke the wax seal; the correspondence within was also handwritten with that same elegant penmanship—signed simply as "RB". Her eyes widened as she skimmed its contents.

"... King of Fighters... _Team_ Tournament...?"


	7. Dignity

Act 2: The way of inhaling and exhaling is with hardness and softness.

* * *

Dignity

Cheng Sinzan smacked his lips as the tray of hot wings was set down in front of him. He tucked his napkin into his shirt; the chair he was seated in creaked under his weight as he leaned over his plate to take in the spicy aroma of his food. He then looked to the dapper blonde who sat across the table from him and gave thought to offer her a piece. He shrugged when she politely declined. "I really like what you've done with the place, kid. You've really brought this old dump back to life."

King remained relaxed in her seat. "Thank you, Cheng." She did her best to hide her disapproval of his gauche table manners, evidence that he was accustomed to eating alone.

Unawares, Cheng eyed a young waitress as she passed. "I see a lot of familiar faces working here... Was that Elizabeth I saw walking by just now?"

"That was Sally. I think." King pouted at her inability to tell the twin sisters in her employ apart. "When the cops brought down Club L'Amor, that suddenly put an experienced wait staff on the market—no training costs."

Cheng smiled and tapped his temple, saying, "I like the way you think, kid."

"I hope you relay your confidence in my management style to the other investors."

"Oh, I came here on my own, actually." He burped. "I wanted to get a progress report of sorts."

King suddenly found herself annoyed, and she folded her arms. "I hope that I don't have to remind you of our deal: as long as I meet my numbers, I get full autonomy of Club La Illusion."

"That's the thing kid: I've been watching you, and I don't think you're going to meet your quota this quarter."

"I still have plenty of time, Cheng." King's eyes narrowed, being at the end of her patience. "The last thing I need is you coming down here giving me shit about it!"

Cheng smirked, unimpressed. "You got me all wrong, kid. Your success is my success: I want to throw some extra business your way."

Ever the businesswoman, King took a deep breath and sighed. "I'm listening."

"The King of Fighters is spinning up again; I was thinking of parlaying public interest in that into a battle-of-the-bands contest."

She grinned. "What are you going to call it? The King of Musicians?"

"I'm still working on the title." Cheng took the last chicken wing from the plate and dunked it into the bowl of hot sauce. "The only real challenge is finding interesting venues to host the competition."

"By 'interesting venues' you mean to include my night club, I take it?" King said in understanding. "What's your cut?"

"A mere thirty percent. I'm not greedy." He placed the chicken wing in his mouth and slurped noisily as he sucked the spicy meat from the bone.

King snorted. "You're a real sweetheart, Cheng, considering all _you_ have to do is hand out fliers."

"C'mon, kid. I do a little more than that." He wiped his hands clean and reached for his cigar. "Your competitors are already on board."

"My 'competitors' do not have La Illusion's _je ne sais quoi."_ She extended her hand and offered, "Twenty percent and you got a deal."

Cheng lit his stogie and regarded the savvy frenchwoman thoughtfully. After substantial deliberation—and a few choice puffs of smoke—he returned her handshake. "Twenty it is... only because I like you, kid." He removed his cigar and leaned in to kiss her hand.

She withdrew it quickly, her expression aloof, and said, "There is no smoking in La Illusion."

"That is going to be the first thing I change if the board ever takes over"—Cheng looked over his shoulder and frowned—"along with that monstrosity you have hanging over the bar."

King smiled, even as she swatted away the smoke. "Hey, I like that painting. I... _liberated_ it from L'Amor before the creditors picked the place clean."

"Why?"

King shrugged and, in reverie, stared at the macabre masterpiece. Over the years she had memorized every detail of this painting. The subject was a slain bullfighter displayed prominently against a dark nondescript background. With his hand draped over his chest, it would appear as if the bullfighter were merely sleeping, were it not for a trickle of blood that stained the ground at his shoulder, marking a violent final performance. "It has a quiet dignity about it, non? Dignity in the face of death."

Cheng did not share King's appreciation. "You should've let them keep it. It's a downer for your customers."

"Fine." She rolled her eyes. "I'll move it to the dining section for the duration of the competition."

"Good girl." He took one last drag from his cigar. "You see, I'm not so bad, am I?"

"You're always welcome, Cheng... as long as you're a paying customer." Having had enough of Cheng's second-hand smoke, King rose from the table.

"While you're up, be a dear and bring me some more wings." King yelped when Cheng slapped the blonde on her bum as she passed.

A loud smack garnered everyone's attention towards Cheng's table. The portly businessman rubbed his cheek as King walked away; she sported a very visible smirk of satisfaction.


	8. Rivalry

Act 2: The way of inhaling and exhaling is with hardness and softness.

* * *

Rivalry

_Kyoshi_ Takuma Sakazaki, master instructor of Kyokugenryu Karatedo, knelt at the head of the training hall in seated meditation. He reached into his lapel to retrieve the handwritten invitation, and he placed it on the floor in front of him, as it was now up for grabs. He looked to his most senior student; Robert Garcia hopped to his feet, adjusted his gi and proceeded to the center of the dojo. Takuma then regarded the visiting delegation from the Yata Clan. A young woman, possibly his daughter's age and far too serious for someone of her years, rose and named her champion. The Yata's challenger hopped onto the mat and faced Robert. The two men bowed, and Takuma gave the command to begin:

"Hajime!"

The fighters attacked with spirit and vigor; both were a credit to their martial arts lineage. After the first exchange, however, Takuma knew that Robert would win easily. As such, he was more inclined to study the countenances of the many onlookers on the sidelines, especially that of his daughter Yuri. The way that she pined for Robert was not surprising given the karateka's confidence. Unfortunately, that same confidence, responsible for the smug grin on Robert's face, would ultimately keep him from ever surpassing Ryo. It was also the reason why the fight had dragged on for as long as it did, much to Takuma's chagrin.

A body slammed onto the mat. The young woman lowered her head when Robert's opponent tapped out, saying, "The Yata Clan yields." And Robert released his opponent's hypersupinated arm.

Takuma's expression betrayed no emotion at his school's victory when he declared, "You have fought with honor." With that, the challengers left in peace. The match over, Takuma placed the invitation back into his lapel, and he ordered his students to fall in alongside Robert. After congratulations were made, he addressed his champion, saying, "Well done, Garcia-Sempai. You and Ryo will represent Kyokugenryu at the upcoming tournament."

Robert smiled. "Thank you, Kyoshi."

"I trust that you are up to the task of protecting our invitation until Ryo's return at the end of the season?"

Robert smiled. "No need for Ryo to cut his stay in Japan short, Kyoshi. If anything, the challengers keep the day from getting boring." His response was met with cheers from some of the other students.

With a furrowed brow Takuma grunted. "So long as you remember Doju Kun number six."

"_Conceitedness halts progress,"_ Robert recited in answer to his master's subtle rebuke. He then bowed in apology, "I will remember, Kyoshi." His peers likewise quieted.

Satisfied, Takuma dismissed the class and left the mat. He was on his way to his office when he was halted by the gentle familiar voice of his daughter Yuri.

"Dad, you got a sec?"

Takuma smiled at her. "Of course, Yuri-chan."

Yuri approached awkwardly with her hands fumbling behind her back. She refrained from looking her father directly in the eyes when she spoke, "Is it true that three-man—er—_person_ teams will be competing in this year's tournament?"

"That is correct."

"Have you decided who will be Kyokugenryu's third representative?"

"Not yet."

"I have also heard that women will be allowed to compete this year."

"I have heard the same."

Yuri bit her lip, employing that same voice she often used when she wanted something from her father. "Well... I just wanted to tell you that... I'm ready to fight if you need me."

"I'm glad to hear that, because I _am_ going to need you."

She gasped, "Really?" Her eyes beamed.

He patted her affectionately on the top of her head. "I'm going to need you to be an excellent _training_ partner for your sempais Ryo and Robert. But, I don't want you anywhere near that tournament. Do you understand?"

Her shoulders slumped. "But, Dad—"

"Run along home now." His dismissiveness brooked no further discussion. "And don't wait up for me; I'll be dining out tonight."

Yuri pouted and stormed off. "... Never lets me do anything..."

_So much like her mother... _Takuma chuckled under his breath as he entered his office, locking the door behind him.

Takuma turned on the lights and closed the blinds. He opened the wall safe behind his desk, retrieved the invitation from his lapel and placed it inside. His hand brushed against something familiar inside the crowded safe, and he pulled out the object wrapped in an unassuming black cloth. He unwrapped it and regarded the red tengu mask: the demonic visage, with its exaggerated features, feathery hair and long protruding nose, inspired long dormant memories to awaken in him. He tossed the mask on his desk, and it ruffled the pages of last week's newspaper. Takuma straightened them out again, making visible the headline that read:

FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED IN GEESE HOWARD'S DEATH.

The date on the newspaper inspired him to glance at the calendar by the door, and he lost himself in his thoughts.

_Year of the dog..._

o~o~o~o~o~O~o~o~o~o~o

The last time Takuma's calendar marked the year of the dog, his hair was far less gray. He remembered hearing a knock on his office door:

_Shihan_ Takuma Sakazaki smiled upon seeing his visitor through the door's windowed pane and beckoned the tall man to enter.

Takuma rose from his desk and bowed in greeting to his long time friend and fellow martial artist, saying, "You honor me with your visit, Master Bogard. Please join me for tea."

Jeff Bogard bowed in kind and shook Takuma's hand, though he seemed to take issue with his new title. "_Master_ implies that I have nothing left to learn, Sakazaki-Shihan."

"Better to think of it as allowing your students to show the same respect that you have, no doubt, given to _your_ teacher Master Tung."

Jeff smiled and took a seat in front of Takuma's desk. "I like that I can always count on you for a balanced perspective, Sakazaki-Shihan."

Takuma smirked and took his seat. "I'm afraid that my motives are not entirely pure, for I look forward to being able to say that I have bested a Hakkyokuseiken _master_ when I win our next match."

"Indeed, but you must win it first, my old friend... And I do stress the 'old' part."

"Speak for yourself." Takuma poured the hot tea into Jeff's cup. "So, how is the family?"

"Terry already has a grasp of the mechanics behind Master Tung's Floating Eagle form: an achievement not yet realized by many practitioners twice his age, " Jeff said with pride.

Not to be outdone, Takuma replied with, "Ryo is not yet thirteen and has earned 'Best of Test' honors at his green belt test. He is on his way to becoming an exemplary karateka."

"It looks like our son's will be rivals soon enough."

Takuma held up his cup in toast. "To rivaly..."

Jeff nodded in tacit approval, and both men drank.

"I will look forward to testing your new skills at this so-called King of Fighters tournament that your rich friend is putting together," Takuma said.

"I have withdrawn my invitation." Jeff's manner changed, becoming more sullen. "Geese Howard and I had a... falling out. I'm afraid that there is malfeasance behind the King of Fighters tournament."

"Why do you say that?"

"Ever since Master Tung chose me to inherit the highest teachings of Hakkyokuseiken, Geese has changed."

"Or, maybe he is finally revealing his true self, Jeff."

"I admit that I was blind, Takuma. I didn't want to believe that Geese was capable of the things that people were saying about him."

"In that case I will withdraw my invitation as well—"

"No." Jeff was quick to interject. "He'll know that I spoke to you. Geese must suspect nothing of you in case I fail."

Takuma's eyes narrowed. "What is going on here, Jeff?"

"I have reason to believe that Geese is trying to assemble the _Qin Book of Secrets."_

"I have never heard of this book."

Jeff took his time to finish his drink and collect his thoughts. He took a deep, quiet breath and recounted a tale as it was told to him by his master and his master before him:

"Two thousand years ago, as emperor Qin Shi Huang reached middle age, he began to fear death. Half of the empire's fortune was spent to commission the wizard Anqi Sheng to commit the secret words of the ancients to paper so that the Emperor could recite them and achieve immortality. However, the Emperor did not know that the wizard schemed to use that power to destroy all off of humanity in the process. Fortunately, the Emperor's most trusted general, Qin Wang Long, saw through the wizard's evil heart: he challenged Anqi Sheng to a duel, and he pierced the wizard's heart with his sword. However, as the wizard lay dying, he was able to finish the final words of the book with his own blood. Anqi Sheng cursed the pages, saying that the most powerful fighter would one day utter the secrets of the ancients. When the Emperor learned of the wizard's plan, he ordered the indestructible book to be divided into three scrolls and scattered to the wind."

Takuma reflected on his friends words saying, "The Okinawan Bubishi speaks of three scrolls: the scroll of destruction, the scroll of creation and the scroll of power. It is foretold that the warrior who can tame all three in the year of the dog will become a god. It refers to them as the _Jin Scrolls."_

"They are one and the same," Jeff replied. "I have reason to believe that Geese is already in possession of the Scroll of Creation and seeks to acquire the Scroll of Power."

"It is a fool's pursuit," Takuma scoffed.

Jeff's brow furrowed. "You don't believe me?"

"I believe that the scrolls existed; I just don't believe in magic," Takuma said. "If you want to stop Geese, join with the rest of the small business community. We're going to lobby the city council to drop Proposition Thirty-Four that would grant The Howard Corporation police power over Southtown."

"It is _politics_ that is the stuff of myths and legends." Jeff's smile returned. "If Geese is successful, Proposition Thirty-Four won't matter."

Takuma snorted. "It appears that we have once again reached an impasse, my friend."

"I plan on intercepting the Scroll of Power. Meet me tonight at Howard Arena, and you will believe." Jeff rose from his seat, glanced in the direction of Takuma's wall safe and smiled knowingly. "Take care while you're out: I have heard stories of a masked vigilante roaming the streets."

Takuma's widened eyes betrayed his apprehension. "I... have heard similar stories. Some say this masked vigilante is a hero."

Jeff's grin broadened. "And most say he's a lunatic." He said his goodbyes and left.

o~o~o~o~o~O~o~o~o~o~o

Takuma's arrival at the tallest building in Southtown brought his thoughts back to the present. The night air was nippy, but his hot breath warmed his face inside his tengu mask. From the shadows he waited for the security patrol to pass before coming out of hiding. When the guards made the block, Takuma made his move and ran across the open quad. Halfway he frowned: had he been a younger man he would have traversed the distance by now. He hopped over the police barricade and came upon the fading chalk outline on the pavement. From the crime scene's vantage point at the base of Howard Tower, it was impossible to see all the way to Geese's penthouse.

Takuma knelt over the chalk outline that marked Geese Howard's demise:

_Nothing living could have survived such a fall._

His hand brushed against the large crack circumscribed by the chalk outline, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end—excited by the horrible power that imbued the broken concrete.

This familiar energy that continued to linger after the fact once again brought the memories of that fateful day to the forefront of his mind.

o~o~o~o~o~O~o~o~o~o~o

Takuma's recollection brought him back to the appointment he had made with Jeff Bogard at Howard Arena. He remembered it too was a breezy moonlit night all those years ago:

Takuma waited, perched atop the fire escape of one of the buildings overlooking the arena square. The entire block was deathly quiet and dark given that the many shops that lined the street had long since closed for the night. Takuma glanced at his watch; it was unlike Jeff to be so late.

He was about to abandon the meeting when a dark figure strolled casually onto the open plaza. He spied Jeff Bogard through his binoculars. He was about to come out of hiding when he noticed that Jeff stilled and assumed a defensive posture. Soon after, another man stepped out of the shadows. Words were spoken, but Takuma was too far away to make out who was speaking or what was being said.

Takuma focused his binoculars on the well-dressed man wearing a three piece suit who squared off against the Hakkyokuseiken master. When this new entrant removed his double-breasted blazer, Takuma clenched his jaw upon recognizing the owner of the long, blond hair that swayed in the breeze.

_Geese!_

By the time Takuma climbed down the fire escape, Jeff and Geese were locked into mortal combat. His first instinct was to come to his friend's aid—but he had to be careful. He continued to sweep the area visually to make sure he wouldn't be running into an ambush. As for Jeff, he stopped worrying when he saw that Geese was no match for Master Tung's top student. Each of Geese's attacks were countered with devastating results.

Less than a minute into the fight, Geese was already bent over, exhausted, with Jeff towering over him. When Geese made one final desperate lunge, Jeff's death-touch struck Geese's throat, and he slumped to the ground. Jeff brushed himself off and turned his back on his fatally wounded enemy.

Content that the area was secure, Takuma started for Howard Arena. He waved; Jeff saw him and waved back.

Then it happened...

Jeff was kicked off of his feet from behind, and the back of his skull met with the hard ground. He shook off the fog and regained consciousness just in time to look upon the hateful glower of this man who should have been a corpse by now.

Standing over his prey, Geese raised both arms over his head as he looked to the heavens, saying, "Raging—" But the rest was made unintelligible behind the thunderclap of Geese's hands coming down to crush Jeff's rib cage into pulp.

Takuma looked on, stunned in disbelief. His first thought was to call for help, but as he looked about the empty merchant street, he knew there was no one around to send for aid. He regarded his reflection in the window looking into the jewelry shop, and he clenched his fist.

_Ko-Ou Ken!_

The thick glass shattered, yielding to the force behind Takuma's punch, and an alarm sounded. It gave away his position, but he didn't care. He put on his tengu mask and ran to the scene.

Geese seemed too preoccupied to notice as he continued to rifle through Jeff's pockets, searching for something. Takuma ran faster; it grew hot inside his mask.

Takuma came upon Geese and, when he was in range, leapt into a flying kick.

However, at the last possible moment, Geese turned, snatched Takuma's ankle out of the air—"Predictable!"—and he flung him over his shoulder like a flimsy bag of rice.

Takuma twisted in mid-air, drawing in his limbs as he righted himself, and he landed on his feet without disturbing so much as a blade of grass. He squared off against Geese as he kicked off his shoes. His toes gripped the earth; his qi tempered his rage. The alarm that rang in the distance was but a soothing lull.

Geese loosened his tie and folded his arms as he regarded his masked opponent. Unimpressed, he merely snorted.

Takuma rushed in, leading with a phony kick that Geese easily side stepped, and he smiled, knowing precisely where Geese would be.

Geese turned into Takuma's backfist. Though dazed, he was able to stay on his feet, but Takuma kept the pressure on with a relentless barrage of punches to Geese's midsection, followed by a jumping, spinning crescent kick aimed to take his head off.

Geese caught the kick at Takuma's ankle and threw the karate man, but this time Takuma was ready: he came about, grabbed a handful of Geese's long flowing hair, and their combined momentum sent both men tumbling into the dirt.

Takuma scrambled to his feet, but Geese was already on top of him with a flying punch.

Takuma shifted slightly, stepping inside the arc of the punch, and he hip-tossed Geese onto the his back. He then dropped himself on top of Geese, landing his elbow heavily into the murderer's heart. Takuma sneered when he felt Geese's sternum snap. He rolled off, poised to deliver the killing blow, but hesitated when Geese started mumbling—no... chanting.

Geese caught Takuma's iron palm and rose to his feet. After he finished chanting, he inhaled deeply, expanding his chest, and his ribs popped back into place.

_Shit!_ Takuma gasped as he finally perceived Geese's strategy. _He's using The Creation Scroll to heal himself!_

Geese sneered, and his hand cut the air. "Reppuken!"

Takama's instincts took over, and he leapt aside to avoid the wave of destructive energy that left the earth razed in its wake; it found another victim in a nearby tree. The hairs on the back of Takuma's neck stood on end as he watched the split tree fall over; the American predilection for profanity seemed the only appropriate response:

"What the fuck!"

The blare of the sirens was getting louder and more numerous. Geese scowled and glared at his masked enemy one last time before retreating into the darkness. Their reckoning would have to wait for another day.

The police were getting closer, yet Takuma refused to leave Jeff behind. He rushed to his friend's side and took his hand. Jeff coughed to clear the blood from his collapsed lungs. "Don't try to speak. Help is on the way."

With the last of his strength, all Jeff could manage was to whisper, "Hid it... inside the dead toreador..." and he breathed his last.

Takuma felt Jeff's grip loosen.

Takuma would never forget the day that he buried his friend, standing alongside Master Tung and Jeff's two young sons. In the coming days, the authorities would say that Jeff Bogard's death was caused by lightning—a freak accident. Proposition thirty-four would pass, and over the years Geese would go on to become the silent master of Southtown with no one to oppose him.

Except the man in the tengu mask...

o~o~o~o~o~O~o~o~o~o~o

"Good evening, sir. I'm King, the owner of La Illusion."

The genteel feminine voice snapped Takuma out of his reverie, and he cleared his throat. "Pardon?"

"The waitress said that you had a problem with your meal?" King clarified.

Takuma looked down to his half-eaten steak and blushed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to imply such; I was just curious if saké was used for the glaze?"

She nodded in reply. "You have a very discerning palate. Would you like to meet the chef?"

Takuma rose—"Dōzo, don't go through the trouble"—and he bowed in apology. "Er, I was also admiring your painting next to the bar. Where did you find it, If you don't mind my asking?"

"I don't mind," King said. "It used to hang over the piano at the old Club L'amor."

"Are you aware of this painting's history?"

"Non. I'm afraid art is not my forte."

"May I?" Takuma pulled out a chair for her.

King blushed, failing to recall the last time a man did such a thing for her, and she tentatively sat in the proffered chair. "Okay."

"It's called _The Dead Toreador,_" Takuma explained as he took the seat next to her. "It was painted by a French artist named Manet and was once part of a larger piece, before the artist cut it out."

"Why did he do that?"

"The painting was met with much criticism, but I don't think we'll ever know for sure. Still, it's rewarding to look for meaning in things that people were fated to do."

"Fate?" King scoffed, nonplussed. "Maybe the pieces just didn't jibe? Some things were never meant to be brought together."

Takuma rubbed his chin. "That is a most illuminating way of looking at it."

"You seem to know an awful lot about this painting. Are you an artist, or a collector?"

"Neither. I have just been looking for this particular piece for a long time."

King smirked. "I'm sure that this is just a copy. My old boss was too cheap to spring for the original."

"Still, I have a feeling that this painting has something that the original lacks," Takuma persisted.

"Thank you for the art lesson. I don't think I'll ever look at this piece the same way again." Being too busy to linger, King rose from her chair, and she bowed in proper Japanese fashion. "I'll pass along your complements to the chef."

Takuma stood as the lady left the table. "Thank you for entertaining the curiosity of an old man."

King regarded the polite Takuma one last time, and she smiled. "Older yes, but not old."


End file.
